


wagtails and mornings and love

by kafka (lostillusion)



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: F/F, Fluff, It's Gay and they're married, That's a bout it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 15:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostillusion/pseuds/kafka
Summary: A ficlet request from discord! It's Charlotte and Corrin being gay





	wagtails and mornings and love

 

Charlotte is always the first to wake, too unused to the morning calls of the wagtails singing from the high branches of the cherry blossom trees. But she doesn’t mind, already too used to the Hoshidan sun (or perhaps she has yet to grow used to it, as any flicker of the sun in her eyes would easily wake her. But then again she has always been the one to rise early and sleep even earlier, so perhaps that might be it). She gets up, feeling her own back crack as she stretches, still sore and unused to the tatami floors. She feels her arms, ignoring the slight dents of skin (shadows of scars) or the bumps bristling like little hills on her arms as a slight chill breaches the open windows of her bedroom, shared with another. 

When was that window open? She wonders as she crawls towards it, closing it shut. As she looks out of the window, feeling the warmth flood back into her skin, she notices the culprit to her chill.

Corrin sleeps soundly by her legs, her hair scattered anywhere and everywhere. Twisting into the mat, twisting into her own strands. What a mess, Charlotte drags her hands through the tangle, what a beautiful mess.

She goes back to her morning routine, feeling kind enough to let her love sleep for what seems an eternity more. She dashes her powder across her skin, evens out the scars all around her body, making her look like a ragged patchwork doll. She ignores the dryness of her face and arms and legs in order to slather some crushed herbs over each patch of sandy skin. She washes them down with a nearby basin, doused in pink carnation petals.

The wagtails are still singing.

By the time she manages to tie the kimono over her body, slipping in a knife within a hidden sheath on her left thigh, Corrin has yet to wake. Charlotte looms over her for a moment. Typical, she wants to say, typical. She feels to the urge to nudge the other woman with her foot and let her wake to the glory that is her body. But Charlotte crouches down instead, mechanically moving to a routine made of love and birthed from ruin. She reaches out, her hands—the only things she cannot hide or mask away with powder, to hide the only remnants to reveal who she is and was and will be—dragging itself across the smooth plane of Corrin’s cheekbones, of the softness of her lashes, of the other’s own scars hidden away in the waves of her hair. 

“Good morning, love.” She twists a lock of Corrin’s hair between her fingers, calloused and ugly in comparison to her beloved’s own. Yet, despite those patches of skin, building on top of each other like tumors, the manakete leans to her touch, and wakes only to kiss each and every one of them.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Corrin laughs, nibbling a bit of her finger. She laughs and laughs, as if she was sharing to her an inside joke but there is nothing other than the warmth between them, and in Charlotte’s own flustered cheeks. As the laughs turn to giggles, still echoing in her ears, it makes Charlotte think that Corrin’s voice is far prettier, much more melodic, than any of the wagtails’ songs.


End file.
